


White Shoes

by rodrigraphics



Series: Lone Wanderer Andrés [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crushes, Gen, Modern Era, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrigraphics/pseuds/rodrigraphics
Summary: I just want to make this work, but maybe it's just too worn out.I keep going back and forth, signaling with flags of doubt.Wishing will not spark a change. Neither will moral delay.Finally I feel the guilt staring at my white shoes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> reposted and edited. hope you enjoy, if you're a first time reader.

It was a warm day, the heat coming in waves, cool breeze embracing the sweat beaded upon naked skin, making eye lashes flutter along with it. Like any other Summer day. Except it wasn’t, it was the last day of Summer. An ode to a repeated beginning like any other. School.

He was surprised to even be doing anything significant with the day at all. Summer had gone fast, as per usual. 2 months in the blink of an eye, maybe two. He waited patiently, skin soaking up the sun giving him a soft glow. He’d never say that about himself, no, Catherine did one evening. A surprise compliment during dinner. Enraptured on about how the sunset made his skin look angelic, complementing the orange and pink of the sky, how his brown eyes twirled into amber. It was the first legitimate compliment he’d ever received in his life, he thought at least. So poetic she was, for a scientist, for his soon to be stepmother.   
The thought shook out of his head as soon as she sat down across from him. They’d only hung out a few times this Summer, her being busy with college resumes, and everything of that nature. He was on the complete opposite of the spectrum, never thought of college unless his dad lectured him, which was often. He didn’t understand why she bothered to be friends with him for all these years. 18 years now.  
Her hibiscus tea shimmered through the sun, different values of maroon and pink. Berries twirling along with the ice. He stuck with a smoothie, the menu noted on the ‘tropical notes’, it still tasted like processed sugars with bland mango however. He didn’t care to complain though.

“Senior year.” She sighed.

“Senior year.” He murmured.

“Do we have any classes together?” She snatched the crumpled paper out of his hand, focused, pursing her lips making the gloss on her lips reflect the sunlight. It made him bite his own lip.

She let out a huff, “no classes.” He could only give her a smile of pity.

“You still running for student body?”

“Of course, have to, my dad would kill me–well not kill me kill me, but lecture me till I was deaf. You know how he is.” 

“Well, you got my vote.”

“The only one that matters.” She laughed, brief, but genuine, shy.

She kicked at his feet under the table, he kicked back. Elementary, to play footsie at this age. They gave each other a knowing smile, yearning, but refused to let it go any farther.

They spent the day languidly, the park, riding the metro, walking downtown. A shared dinner at The Dabney, a favorite of theirs; he picked the vegetables off her plate, and she picked meat off of his.   
7 pm, as they rode the metro back. She leaned on his shoulder, as he leaned against the window. It made his heart lurch. He walked her home, few shared words on the way there. And a hug goodbye, a promise of seeing each other at school. 

30 minute walk back home, only street lights as his guide. He climbed over the fence, he always thought of gated communities as paranoid and shut off, he thought the same of the one he lived in. Lined up cars, lights dim in each window, porch doors open. He heard a couple fighting, and a baby crying.  
Four sets of stairs was too much to climb, why his dad ever bought a townhome on the fourth floor puzzled him. Out of breath by the time his key clicked the door open.

“How was your last day of Summer champ?” His dad sat in the living room, laptop open, various papers scattered, a book highlighted in key sections, pen scribbling to a sticky note, glasses at the tip of his nose. Never organized, always working.

“Fine. Amata and I just hung out, had dinner, that kind of thing.” He grabbed the remote, news never interested him, too depressing. Flipped through the guide, nothing interesting on, he saw his dad wink at him in the corner of his eye. He only rolled his eyes and sighed in annoyance back. 

“I’m not teasing, only applauding you for being social.”

“Sure, sure you are.”

“Don’t take it so seriously son.” He gave a guilty smile.

“I’m not. Now, if you excuse me, I gotta go get ready and prepared for the worst time of my life tomorrow.”

“Always so dramatic like your mother.”

He ignored the comment as he went upstairs.

He missed his mom, divorced when he was 8 years old. Drifted apart, fought–not in front of him, but in secret at night when they thought he was asleep. James too focused on work, never making time for his own son and wife. Repeatable, same old same old, a common divorce story. Love doesn’t last forever. “Till Death Do Us Part”, was a crock of shit. Though, they never had a wedding, only a certificate.   
As soon as the divorce was over, his mom moved back to her homeland, where she felt she belonged, Mexico. To begin again, and you couldn’t begin again with a son in an impoverished country. She loved him though, he knew that. Cards, presents, phone calls, the few yearly trips to Mexico. She loved him and she showed it in all possible ways. It only made him miss her more.

His mind droned on, useless thoughts in and out, constant. A song lyric repeating over and over. His body moved and his hands organized, notebooks labeled and shoved into a backpack. Room cleaned of trash that collected on the floor, crumpled sketches and notes. Empty chip bags and rotten candy that somehow survived under his bed.  
He fell back onto his newly made bed, wrinkling the comforter with his weight. His poster of Selena giving her gleaming smile, so sad. 

He looked at his shoes, new and bleached white, adidas, his favorite. Except, there was a scuff on them. Dirt. Amata’s own shoe from their game of cat and mouse. He kicked them off.

Attraction ruined everything, even new shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waste of space I've become and stayed at.   
> I want you back, but unsure if that's exactly good for either of you.

His alarm ticked from 58 to 59. 6 am. One more minute, one more. Eyes with a streak of bursted veins in his eyes. He’d been up since 4:47, unable to wrestle himself back to sleep.

He knew his dad was already gone, off to work. He was alone. So really, he could be doing anything without fear. But, he'd put fresh sheets on the other day, and didn't want to “ruin” them to put it in the most kindergarten way— with his disgusting hormonal moods.

The alarm blared, one screech and it was over. Yanked the cord out of the outlet. And the house grew silent again.

The hot water only made him more drowsy, relaxed. He'd prefer to stay here until he died, or at least until the water got cold.   
A thought crossed his mind, sharing a bathroom wasn't a problem with his dad. Though, with a new family—mom, siblings, that’d be a change. He didn't like it. Change was bothersome.

He thought of Amata, and wanted to crawl out of his skin afterwards.

He didn't bother to brush his hair, never did, no matter how many times his dad commented on it. Running his hands through it, required a lot less effort. His mother also said it made him look like James Dean. Which he was okay with.

His mother, he had to call her, they always did on the first day of school. The phone rang on speaker as he put his well worn favorite shirt on, simple, minimalistic. “I Am Unknowable”. White text on black. Amata gave him the shirt for his 17th birthday. It was the best, and most understanding present he'd ever gotten.  
The phone rang again, he was buttoning his jeans up by then.   
And it rang again. He was tying the laces on his tattered converse.

He left her a message.

Nothing looked appetizing in the fridge. Didn't usually eat breakfast anyway. If his dad knew he was drinking orange juice straight from the jug, he'd be called disgusting and told to get manners. So it was just a secret for him and him alone to bear.

Jean jacket, the temperature outside was still chilly and cool. The bike ride over to the school would leave his hands red and pink. New freshman would shy away as soon as they saw him, which made him feel good, surprisingly. He didn't bother to lock the bike up, because it wasn't even his, it was his neighbor's.

His first class would be photography, Mr.Linn, he always biked to school. Math with Ms. Agren, she always wore shawls. Student aide for freshman Spanish, Mr.Gonzales, he liked to throw markers at kids. AP literature with Mr. Deford, he liked to go off on tangents on everything and anything. Easy. First day would be easy. 1 hour and 20 minutes for each class, it'd go fast. Hopefully.   
And then it'd repeat with 4 different classes tomorrow. Ethics and Philosophy, AP Spanish, Drawing + Painting, Study Hall. On and off.

Christine Kendall pestered him first period, how was your Summer ? How was your Summer ? He knew she liked him, but that only made her more annoying.  
Wally Mack constantly copied off his work in math, taking the paper out of his hands before he'd even finish a problem.

Lunch was casual. Lunch was a god damn savior. He sat with Amata, and listened to her talk and talk. She said they should hang out after school, he said okay.

A random freshman stared him down while he sat at Gonzales’ desk, and didn't stop for the entire period. He gave the kid the middle finger at the end.  
Susie Mack sat next to him in Lit, and her hand touched his thigh. They kissed last Homecoming, and she never got over it.

And the day was over, done.

Amata caught him as soon as the bell ring, and said she had a student council meeting. Tomorrow she said, tomorrow. She kissed his cheek. In the corner of his eye, he saw Susie Mack glare.

There was nothing else to do but go home.

His neighbors bike was gone when he came outside.

He started walking.

And someone started following.

“We're not doing this again Freddie.”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“Yeah, yeah you fucking are, you're following me. I know that, because you live in the suburbs, you're not fucking slick.”

“I just wanna talk.”

“About what ? What do you wanna talk about ? How much you miss me giving you attention ? About how you're so fucking sorry with what happened last year ?”

“Fucking cool it man, yes I'm sorry, why are you still so angry over it, no one remembers.”

“Don't fucking tell me to cool it dipshit, don't fucking tell me to not be angry. Because I still am and always will be, because you're fucking scum, and I will always fucking remember.”

Freddie just stood there. Thumb rubbing against his index finger, nervous tick he never got rid of.

“Fuck off man ! I don't want to see you, hurry up before I break your fucking nose.”

He left Freddie on the sidewalk, without even a glance back.

He slammed the door shut as soon as he got home, he hated how angry he was, he hated that Freddie got under his skin.

The house was empty, dad still at work. He went upstairs and crawled under the covers of his bed.

His mom called him and asked how his day was, he said fine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing's gonna be the same.   
> Believe me that I want to change.   
> But this change will be all in vain; like always I'm way too late.

In ethics and philosophy, he was the only one to agree with the story of The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas. He said, it's human nature to be selfish, and that everyone else in class was lying to themselves. Sacrificing everyone's happiness for the happiness of one. It was fake compassion. Transparent. Most moved over to his side after he said that. 

AP Spanish involved the teacher mistaking him and Reynaldo Santos for being brothers, and refusing to believe otherwise. They'd never talked, in all of their years of high school. And it was awkward.

Art class was the only thing to look forward to. Except it wasn't, because, God or maybe just life in general, hated him.

“Santos.”

“DeLoria.”

Freddie stared from the corner of the room.

Why he chose to sit next to Butch, was because it either him or Freddie. He'd prefer to deal with an asshole, than a pathetic excuse for a human being. 

Butch and him, had hated each other since 2nd grade. Ever since that fateful day Butch pulled on Amata’s ponytail and made her cry on the playground. That recess ended in the both of them in the principal's.

Stupid reason. The loathing only grew over the years.

Butch doodled a penis on his sketchbook. Mature. He wrote fuck you in response. Butch just laughed. So did he. Surprisingly.

The teacher asked if they had anything to share, they said no in unison. Perfect little school boys.

“Wanna hang after school?”

“What makes you think I wanna hang with you.”

“Those sad puppy eyes you always give Amata when she says tomorrow and you know that she'll postpone again, and again. That's what.”

He hated that Butch was right, and Butch knew he was right, which pissed him off even more.

“Fine.”

“Cool, meet me behind the school after the day's done.”

In study hall his heart thumped unevenly.

Amata caught him in the hall, he always wondered how she managed to find him.

“Sorry Amata, I gotta—gotta go meet someone. Tomorrow alright ?”

She said okay, a little bit of hurt in her eyes. It made him feel like a monster.

The back of the school was crummy, trashed. A makeout spot for freshman and sophomores, not the most romantic. Crude graffiti and the dumpster filled with rotting lunches and oh so much more, wasn’t the best mood setter. But it fit Butch perfectly.

“Finally standing up for yourself Santos ? Can’t go chasing pussy forever no offense.”

“Shut up.”

Butch threw him a carton of cigarettes, new, made him rip off the packaging. Handed one to Butch and grabbed one for himself, like glasses of wine, except for teenagers who were broke and full of too many hormones.

“I take it you don’t smoke Santos.” 

He hated that Butch already knew, saw the hesitation and curiosity in him.

“Hard to when your dad’s a doctor.”

Butch smiled, flicked his lighter, bright and burning. Lit the both of them carefully. 

“Don’t choke.”

The smoke burnt his lungs, his throat. He choked. Butch laughed at him, patted him on the back. Do it again, just do it again, you’ll get used to it.

It felt nice after a while. An hour had passed, they’d gone through half of the carton. 

“You still skateboard?”

“Yeah, why’re you asking.”

“Bring it, teach me how to skateboard.”

“What gave you the idea that I’d ever let you touch my skateboard?”

“You coming out here to smoke with me.”

Butch had him, and he had no choice but to say yes.

Not another word was shared between them.

Butch had to leave at 5 pm, said to keep the cigarettes. 

He hated that Butch was leaving. He hated that he wanted him to stay. He was more lonely than he had realized before.

Nowhere else to go but home. He hoped he didn't smell like smoke, but he knew he did. He smoked another cigarette on the walk back.

“Andrés.”

“Dad.”

His dad gave him a look, vague, but he knew he did something wrong.

“The neighbor's bike is missing.”

“Okay?”

“Have you seen it anywhere?”

“No? Are you trying to blame me for this ? Why would I ever touch the dude's bike, he's a freak.”

“Andrés, that's no way to talk about someone you hardly know.”

“He's not here.”

“Yes, but it's called respect and manners.”

He kissed his teeth, “—I have homework to do.”

His dad knocked on his bedroom door, let himself in without waiting for a response.   
“I didn't mean to accuse you, I was just asking if you knew or saw anything.”

“I didn't. There's my answer. Can you leave me alone now?”

His dad just sighed, and closed the door.

His head hurt, he was sure it was from the cigarettes. But it might have been his dad too.

He opened the window, and smoked a cigarette.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, vanity is so easy. What a breeze.  
> Caring about no one else but yourself.  
> I just want to care about me and you.  
> Ignorantly wallowing in my youth.

Amata found him at his locker. Her hair in her usual sloppy bun, stray strands falling in front of her eyes, he tucked them behind her ear. She still stared intently.

“What?”

“You know what.”

He gave an innocent smile, “no I don’t.”

She pouted, “who were you seeing yesterday?”

He shut his locker, tapped his fingers on the cool metal for a quick second. He didn’t know why he felt the need to keep it secret. Something safe and precious. Revolted himself at the thought of those words. 

“Just someone. Nothing serious.”

“Just someone, sure. I don’t believe you, but I won’t push any further.”

Felt a pang in his chest, guilt, lying. Felt like he should beg for forgiveness. She pinched his arm, he figured that was the best kind of punishment and forgiveness he could receive.

“Well got equations and shit to solve. Math class, you know how it is.”

“See you at lunch.”

He stared at the worksheet for 10 minutes, unable to concentrate. These graphs, dots, numbers, they meant nothing, there was already an answer figured out. Someone had already figured this out. Why did he have to figure it out. Math was closed in, answers already figured out. It was useless. Math was useless. Maybe he thought this because he was an art kid. But he knew that he just hated math. He knew that answer at least.

His phone hummed in his pocket. Why he gave Butch his number, was something he couldn’t answer.

> did u bring yr skateboard

< yea

> come behind the school

< u expect me to ditch class

> yes u fkn loser

< fuck u

One excuse to the bathroom was all he needed. His hands fumbled with the lock, three tries before he could open his locker. He hated how his heart thumped, how his hands got clammy.

He thought about riding down the hall, but didn’t. Too loud.

Butch was kicking at the ground when he came outside.

“Took you long enough.”

“Piss off, do you wanna learn or not.”

“Yeah yeah, just hand it over.”

“—you don’t want any help? Advice ?”

“No. I can handle it.”

“Okay then why the fuck am I here?”

“Better than being in class isn’t it?”

He had a point. 

And he spent his time watching Butch stumble and lose balance. And swear angrily. Almost got it, 25th try or so. Still too clumsy. It was funny to watch, Butch losing his cool, Butch getting angry, Butch tripping everywhere. Butch acting like an actual human being outside his school bully facade.

He smoked the last cigarette left from yesterday, and waited till Butch gave up. He heard Butch scream fuck a minute later.

“Give me a cigarette.”

“This is the last one.”

Butch snatched it out his mouth, thumb grazing his bottom lip. He recoiled back as Butch took a drag from the cigarette.  
“Shit’s too hard.”

“Told you I could help you.”

He saw Butch knit his brow, fighting internally with himself. Concentrated on something so simple.

“Later.”

“Later?”

“Later. Let’s get lunch.”

He thought about Amata.

“Uh—”

“Don’t even talk about Amata, let’s just fucking go alright ? I’ll even pay for it.”

Couldn’t say no to that.

Butch’s car was cluttered, expected disarray. Crumpled receipts stuffed into the glove compartment, homework bleached from the sun on top of the dashboard, old crushed soda cans stacked in the back, his work uniform neatly folded near it. A cup holder was filled with cigarette ash, classy.

“You can put the CDs in the back.”

He didn’t even notice, a pile of CDs in the passenger seat. Rearviewmirror at the top.

“You listen to Pearl Jam?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Butch just murmured under his breath.

The sun pouring in from the windows had the car sweltering in heat, the AC couldn’t kick in fast enough. Neither bothered with seat belts. 

“You can put something in if you want—a CD.”

Pearl Jam, classic. Rearviewanimal, greatest hits. He was surprised that Butch even had good music taste. Track 6, Animal. Good song. 

“Nice choice.” Butch smiled, it was a million dollar smile.

They just listened. As the lights turned green, as the buildings rolled by, as they pulled into the curb. Fast food, cheap grub. Unhealthy and delicious.

The girl who brought their order was cute, blonde and deep brown eyes. Her shirt tight and her pony tail high. God.

Butch ate a fry, “she was cute.”

He sipped on his coke, “yep.”

“You can say it Santos.”

“Okay—she was fucking hot.”

“There we go.”

Butch ruffled his hair. Boyish encouragement.

Gonzales’ class was grueling, he never knew how many ways the word “brincar” could be misspelled. He never knew how bad freshman could mispronounce “emocionado”. He hated that he’d rather be in Butch’s car listening to Pearl Jam. He hated that he’d rather be with Butch.

Susie Mack kept touching his hand under the desk, he had to cross his arms for her to stop. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

> skatepark after school?

< sure u wanna embarrass urself in front of ppl who kno how 2 actually skate?

> fuck off  
> ur skateboard is still in my car

< alright skatepark after school

Amata stopped him in the parking lot. Shit.

“I couldn’t find you at lunch.”  
“Oh yeah, sorry—”

Butch honked at them. Fucking shit.

“Sorry that you were with him I’m guessing ?”

“He offered lunch, can’t refuse a free meal !”

“And you’re going for an afternoon snack now ?”

“Ah—I dunno, just hanging I guess.”

“You’re full of surprises Andrés. Well you two have fun, don’t get killed please.”

He always liked the way she rolled the ‘r’ in his name.

“I won’t, don’t worry.”

Butch gave him a new pack of cigarettes, they rolled the windows down. When they got to the skatepark, they kept smoking till they were down till the last cigarette. They shared it, as the sun went down.

Butch’s blue eyes complemented the orange of the sky. Sparks of turquoise electric in his eyes. 

“Whatcha staring at Santos.”

“Nothing, you’ve just been hogging the cigarette.”

Butch placed it between his lips, his thumb grazed his skin again. But he didn’t recoil this time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I could, I would stare at you all day. 
> 
> Lying to myself, I am really afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2248 is butch and 4569 is andrés. last 4 digits of their phone numbers.

The first weekend of the school year. The most depressing one out of all. Friday night he had spent it alone, not that he didn't mind. Spending the evening doing homework, and watching a documentary on the use of marijuana in the Congo was all he needed to feel okay.   
He woke up when his dad came home from work, 10 pm. A cheap infomercial was playing on the TV now, hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep. The actors looked so pathetic, and the host was too optimistic to even look human.  
His dad was quiet, thinking he was still asleep. He just listened. Shuffling around the kitchen, jotting something down —probably a grocery list for tomorrow, which he would have to go buy. The pop of a wine bottle being opened, and poured carefully. The lights turned off, one by one. Till it was just him and the fake personalities of people on TV staring at him.  
He turned the TV off.

His dad's door was closed, but he could see a faint light from under the door, never stopped working. He closed the door to his bedroom in return. His room was cool, so he crawled into bed. The sheets cold to the touch. He hugged his own body for warmth. The sound of his own breathing, became unsettling.

He fell asleep slowly. 

He dreamed about crows picking at his hands till they were raw and bloody, in the hot sun. The sun burning his skin red, and blinding his eyes. But he just laid there, accepting it.

He woke up clinging to the covers.

His body was overheating, but it was so warm. He laid there quietly. It was still dark outside, before dawn. Life would be nice, if he could stay like this forever.

He thought about Butch, and then he thought about Amata, and then Freddie. He drifted back to sleep.

This time he dreamt about nothing.

The water was steaming, he always loved hot showers. The sun was shining through the shower curtains. His body felt slow, each movement dragging. Soap got into his eyes, the burn felt like the sun from his dream. He rubbed at it till it became numb and tolerable. 

Drops of water fell onto the dining table, his hair still damp. He ran his hand through it, his dad told him to brush his hair. He just shrugged and drank his coffee. It was bitter, he was too lazy to add any sugar. 

A clutter of knocks at the door. Ah, he forgot about the visit. Preparations, etc, the wedding was soon. He forgot about that. Wasn't sure if it was on purpose or not.

He saw his dad's eyes perk up, a gleam in them, childlike excitement. Love, how amazing. Truly. He moved over to the couch, and stared outside the window. A great dane trotting down the street, leash handled by a woman in yoga pants, she looked nice. 

“There he is, shrinking himself into the corner ! Andrés, don't hide!” Her voice was cheery, like she was happy to see him, of course she was, had to be. He would be her step son soon. But he knew it was sincere, she was always sincere.

Catherine would hug him tightly, shake him a little, overbearing love. What was it with mothers and loving too much? Too much. 

Her hair was pulled back into a bun, but he could see a stray curl out of place. Her skin smooth and glowing, full of so much life. Her eyes telling the same story, bright and loving. Excitement, a fire burning in them. He wished he could have that much passion for life. 

He hadn't seen her kids in a while, since the beginning of Summer. He felt nervous, even if they were all in high school, there was a disconnect between him and them. Even if they didn’t have a dad, like he didn’t have his mother around. Growing up in inner city St.Louis, compared to D.C, wasn’t much to relate over. They were part Puerto Rican, he was Mexican American. Different, similar, but different. He played nice all the same.

June was the older one, a senior like him. She was taller than him, a couple inches. She had dyed her hair blonde, the last time he saw her, she was a dark brunette, almost coal black. But it suited her, made her angelic looking. Curls bouncing with every movement, like a cloud during sunrise. She loved to smile, enthusiastic and constantly moving, expressive, telling of her moods. Her deep brown eyes, standing out against the blonde, forward and confident. Eye contact constant unless she was enthralled by something. 

August, her younger brother, a sophomore. Shorter than him, an inch or two. Freckles splattered onto his skin, in shades of ruddy browns, against the light flush of his cheeks. His copper hair with highlights of auburn in the morning sun, waves and tendrils of curls up in the air. His eyes were just like his mom's. Dark and passionate, emotional and understanding. But always darted away from the looks of others. The gold metal lining of his glasses made all his features tie together analogously.

June smiled, angelic and spilling with happiness. She hugged him, patted his back like he was choking on something. Familial love maybe. 

August gave a shy smile with a gentle hug. Quickly returning to the side of his mother.

God he hated this. Not them. Socializing, friendliness in the morning, sharing time and space with one another. But he couldn't get out of it. Family, soon to be family. Great.

He was never bothered by his mother's side though. In Mexico, someone was always close, being alone and distant with oneself was a myth. If he was alone, his mother, or someone else, a cousin, uncle, aunt, a stranger even ; would slink to his side, and sit with him. Just because they could, they wanted to. Never alone. Personal space, was farce.  
But he didn't mind it. It was nice even, just to know someone else was there. 

But here, it was overbearing, suffocating, forced. His dad forcing him to play a part. He wanted to be alone.

Saturday mornings were supposed to be relaxing. This wasn't.  
He wanted a cigarette.

Amata called him, thank god. She wanted to hang out.

“You don't want to help with any decorations or details ? You are the artistic one of this family.”

This family. Like they were already inseparable, it made him feel sick.

“Oh James just let him go, you can't hold down a teenage boy.”

He'd have to thank Catherine later.

Amata was sitting on her front porch, eyes scrolling down her phone. Casual, hair down, falling in delicate strands over her shoulders. Wearing those black high rise shorts that he loved on her, though he’d never tell her that. 

“You just saved me a day being jailed in with soon to be family so thanks.”

“No problem, I just have these instincts when I know you want to crawl out of your skin. So I come in to help, like a good best friend.”

“The best, best friend.”

She laughed.

It was nice. Calm. They just sat outside in the sun, and it was warm. Sleep inducing. 

A beep of a car startled them awake.

“Dad—you're back from your trip.”

He was sure Mr. Almodovar never liked him. Even when him and Amata were kids.

“I see lazing around seems to be the activity, kids do these days.”

“Dad it's the first Saturday of the school year. Lounging around isn't so bad. Relaxing, you should try it sometime.” She gave a weak smile, he really hated when she did it. Making herself meek.

“Relaxing leads to procrastination.” Mr. Almodovar looked directly at him.

“Dad why don't you go unpack your bags.” 

The silence had become awkward then.

“Sorry about that, you know how he is.”

“It’s okay. It’s how parents are.” 

“Since lazing around is only for slackers, let’s do something.” She looked at his face studying it. “You really need to pluck your eyebrows.”

“Should I feel insulted.”

“Every famous man in Hollywood keeps his eyebrows trim and nice Andrés. You should to.”

“But there’s a distinct difference between celebrities and me.”

“And what is that ?”

“They’re important and handsome.”

“And so are you ! Come on, I’ll even use my eyebrow kit and we can do face masks, watch a movie.”

“So a sleepover basically.”

“Yes ! A sleepover between two best friends. Just during daytime.”

“Fine, just don’t make them thin. No drastic plucking to where I look like a chola. No sharpie either.”

“Lip liner and thin eyebrows not your look ? I think you’d look ravishing.”

“I may be chicano, but I have standards.”

Amata’s room was bigger than his, obviously since she lived in an actual house, not a townhome. Big windows looking out to her backyard, pale pink curtains accenting them. Those were the same since they were kids. Her bed now had silk mauve sheets and a comforter, different than the ballerina set she had when she was 10. She really hated that ballerina comforter. Everything was neutral but royal in color, muted pinks and purples accenting in decorations. It really matched her, how she was now. Like her own palace.   
Why was he so stuck on this, everyone’s style changes. Maybe he just missed Amata, maybe he just missed them. Despite always being close and near for the years, something had come between them. Differences in lifestyles, choices? Life became more complicated as they grew older. Life made them complicated with each other.   
Being with her, made him realize, just how much he missed her.

She clacked a pair of tweezers in front of his eyes, “hello, anybody in there?”

He flinched back, “somebody is, but they’re currently away. Would you like me to take a message?”

“Yes, I’d like to leave a message for Andrés Santos, and tell him that he should be a good guest and sit on the bed so I can make his life and eyebrows better.”

“Message received.”

It was painful, but Amata just called him a baby every time he complained. He liked the mask much more better. More refreshing, not painful. Sleepovers, whether day or night, were nice. Pampering yourself was nice. He did, admittedly look better. Though, the outcome wasn’t as important to him, as much as being able to spend time with Amata was. Just them, no school, no parents, just them. Like when they were young. 

They watched Romeo and Juliet, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio. It was a favorite of theirs.

Amata wanted him to stay for dinner, but he said his soon to be family, should at least deserve a little of his time. She gave in to it, and let him go. 

His phone buzzed on the walk back.

2248: skatepark ?

4569: why now tho ??

2248: bc y the fuck not ???

4569: dont have my skateboard

2248: its cool, we don’t need one

4569: ???

2248: just fucking come

Butch was in his car waiting, by the time he made it.

“Took you long enough Santos—” his glance turned into a stare.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Butch was wearing a worn see through shirt, the logo of RUSH faded and muted. It looked nice on him. But he’d never tell him that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Straining for this effort, stringing along hope that-  
> someday this will be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor mention of a relationship that may be uncomfortable for readers. Andrés was 17 at the time, and Lucy West was 23. I don't condone pedophilic relationships like that, since in this au Andrés is younger. But I simply am going off of experience with other high schoolers I know (I'm a senior), and how teenagers (seniors usually) often date college students.
> 
> f slur near the end of the fic

“No need to ask because, obviously, you're not a virgin.”

Butch never started talking when he got in the car, they never talked. Why now ? Why this subject ? Why did he hang out with Butch ?

“No need to respond—I’m just amazed, at how much and many, girls give you googoo eyes, raising their skirts around you, that shit.”

He shrugged.

“I admit, getting with that college girl even for a short time gave you some credit. No wonder every girl wants you. You’re just a foxy boy now huh Santos ? No wonder every girl is in love with the idea of a dude kissing her all over while wearing lipstick. Artsy shit, romantic weirdly, fucking weirdo. Say, what was her name anyways ?”

“Lucy.”

“Nice name. Lucy.”

He could see Butch savoring the name as it left his lips.

She was nice, a med student. Dreamy maybe, because she was older and had life experience. And he was a teenager with confused eyes and internalized hatred. And she soothed it. And she made him feel human. Maybe, he was just a teenager, and he was impulsive. Felt too intensely.

She treated him like a pet, he thinks now. Realizes now. Had a fascination with putting lipstick on him. 

Rumors grew, and they reached everyone's ears, followed and followed. His dad found out, and saw him sneaking to her car one night. But didn't even say anything when he came back.

She was always tired. They always saw each other late. Always. Usually she drank white wine from the bottle and would fall asleep on him. And drive him home at 6 am. Usually.

She took him out, and someone saw them, he didn't know who. But someone. That's how the rumors started. Someone saw her wipe the dried lipstick off his lips. Someone saw.

They stopped seeing each other, or, she stopped coming. No goodbye. It bothered him for a few weeks, rumors only adding to his anger.  
He kissed too many girls that year. Too many. His hand slipped up too many skirts, down too many shirts.  
So much, he disgusted himself. 

“Yo no crió a ninguna un zorro.” His mom lectured him for over an hour.

His dad just stared at the lipstick stains on his face.

“Hey dickweed.” Butch pinched his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“It's Saturday.”

“And?”

“I'm bringing you to my house.”

Today was different. Nervousness gnawed at his stomach. Sun was down, streetlights leaking onto the streets. It wasn't even the thought of going into Butch's house. It was Butch himself. That made him nervous.  
They drove to the Northeast Washington. Radio low, and neither of them talking. There was another car already in the driveway. 

He held the screen door open as Butch fumbled with his keys, opening the door slowly.

The only light and noise was the TV downstairs. Blue and hazy, bright dull bright dull. Humming. Butch rushed him up the stairs, the creaks on each step made his heart lurch.

Butch's room was warm. Cleaner than he expected. Simple. Minimalist, but Butch would hate if he used that word. Bed on the ground, neatly made, not a wrinkle in sight. 3 pillows. Odd number. Lucky number.  
Closet was closed. Could faintly make out the hung up shirts.  
Chaise lounge, opposite to the bed. Never expected him for a psychologist. Or one for French furniture.  
Blinds open, and looking out onto the neighborhood street.  
There was only a calendar on the pale blue wall. The same one he had. New York In Art.

“Make yourself at home.”

“Why'd you bring me.”

“Why not.”

“Give me a cigarette.”

Butch opened the window, and watched him smoke.  
He went and laid on the bed. It smelled like stale cologne, with a mix of laundry detergent and cigarettes faintly.

His phone buzzed, his dad was calling. Probably wondering where he was. Knowing his father, he had most likely called Amata’s house looking for him; and getting the answer that “Andrés left over an hour ago.” Then Mr. Almodovar and his dad would have an uncomfortable brief conversation before hanging up. Immediately after hanging up the phone, his father would begin thinking up a lecture, for when he would get home. If he went home.  
He handed the cigarette over to Butch half finished ; rolled over, and stared at the texture of the wall. His mind was racing, and he shut his eyes.

He felt Butch get up from the edge of the bed, the shift in weight. Hearing him look for something in his dresser on the other side of his room.

“I have a proposition for you.”

He didn’t bother looking up, “And it is ?”

Butch threw a small box next to him, old shoe box. He opened it slowly, a stick and poke tattoo kit, from it’s condition it was obviously secondhand, but the ink in the box looked new.

“You’re joking.”

“No, why the fuck would I ? You’re an artist, I’m just asking for a tattoo.”

“Yeah I’m an artist, but I’ve never fucking tattooed anyone.”

“Well here’s your practice.” Butch rolled his sleeve up to the shoulder, his right hand patting his left bicep, “nothing big, but...Just wanted to try it out, okay ? So, yes or no ?”

He rolled his eyes and bit his lip, contemplating. “Fine.”

Butch’s eyes lit up, a giddy smile on his face as he sat back down on the bed. Fingers clenching the comforter of the bed.

The pages of the instruction booklet were thick, and he almost gave himself a papercut while turning the pages. His hands were getting sweaty, and his heart was slowly increasing in pace. Didn’t expect his night to start with going over to Butch’s house on a Saturday night, and give him a stick and poke. Like they were grunge kids who hated society. Well maybe the hating society was true at least. But neither of them ever said it out loud.  
He could feel Butch’s eyes on him which made him more nervous.

Butch picked the booklet out of his hands and threw it across the room.

“The fuck dude, you want me to botch your tattoo or something ?” 

“Pfft, come on. Just get to it already. Besides, it’s gonna be small. Just a knife. Simple.”

He frowned in contempt, and Butch just stuck his tongue out at him.  
The kit came with some gloves, and he put them on. Making his skin itch uncomfortably. He didn’t know what he was doing, repeating each step he read from the book, getting the ink ready. Drawing the outline in a blue pen that Butch dug out of his back pocket. It had the logo of some restaurant, probably from his work.  
Simple, minimalistic.  
When the needle poked at Butch’s skin, Butch flinched. And he made fun of Butch for that. Butch just grumbled to himself. It wasn’t especially hard, Butch’s skin took the ink easily enough, just had to keep one hand to stretch his skin out. It was calming almost, while neither of them talked ; it felt more intimate. But he threw that thought away as soon as the word intimate came into his head. So he cleared every thought out of his head and focused on inking the handle of the knife. Wiping away any spare ink with wet toilet paper Butch got from the bathroom. At least it wasn’t one ply. Half an hour or so passed by the time it was finished.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his thumb. Butch was admiring his new homemade tattoo with glee.

“Thanks Santos. Really, I mean it.”

“Butch DeLoria meaning something sincerely for once ? Color me surprised.”

“Shut up douchebag.” But he was saying it with a smile.

Their eyes met and lingered awkwardly, before he darted his eyes to his hands peeling the gloves off. Butch’s fingers tapped against the bed.

“You get your eyebrows done or something ?”

“Uh—yeah, hung out with Amata today. We had..A spa day you could say.”

Butch snorted, “How cute.”

“Shut up man, you noticed so hey it must make some difference in my look.”

“I guess, your facial features looks sharper because of it.”

“Thanks for the compliment I guess.”

Butch didn’t respond.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the night, even on the drive home. He dreaded the thought of going home, he still felt weird about how he’d rather stay with Butch. But it’d be weird to ask if he could just stay the night, especially when they were already in Northwest Washington.

Butch parked by the front of the gate of the townhomes, and turned the radio up.

“Anybody still tease you about that thing Santos ?”

“What thing ?”

“When Freddie sent those pictures all over school last year.”

He tensed up, regretted tonight now. Ran a hand through his hair and looked outside the window into the dark.  
“I wouldn’t really call it teasing, but, asides from the stray comments of being called a ‘faggot’ and ‘cocksucker’ every other week or so, not really no. But I dunno, think I’m too busy ignoring everyone to really notice what people say to me.”

“That’s shit, I’m sorry man.”

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

Silence filled the space between them, and the song playing on the radio just uncomfortably draped over it.

“See you Monday.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> filler, but eatable filler you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> being a hobbyist writer is fun, i can write anytime i want after months and months of no motivation.

Sunday mornings were always depressing to him. Lethargy still clinging to his muscles, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands before getting up.  
He remembered his dad waiting for him when he came in. But just ignored every word James said before yelling at him and going up to his room. He felt like he was 12 again. He yelled at his dad a lot when he was that age. He really couldn’t remember why, but he blamed it on early puberty.  
When he walked into the hallway he could hear Catherine’s voice, grimaced at the thought of his dad bringing up last night with her there. Awkward and showing his true colors in front of her. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face to shrink his anxiety.  
He thought about how he should call his mom today. It’d be a good way to avoid conversation, and leave the house. Also just to talk to her, because he missed her.

He stared at himself in the mirror for the moment, water still clinging to the grease of his skin, dropping off his chin onto the counter. His skin so dull. He felt like he couldn’t recognize who he was staring at.

His dad called out to him from downstairs, and anxiety shot through his veins. He fumbled back to his room, quickly changing out of the warmth of his lazy sleepwear to the cool fabric of jeans and a washed out shirt. Decent looking, average. He ran a hand through his hair, his mother’s voice played in his head, _“igual que James Dean”._ His mother didn’t know what she was talking about, because he was just Andrés. It’s all who he’d ever be.

Dialing the pattern of numbers to Mexico, then her number, listening to each pitched ring as he waited for an answer. On the edge of the last ring, she picked up. She’d coo at him for calling his dear mother, what a loving and thoughtful son she had, unlike all his primos who never called his tias. Then ask him how he was, how school was, how Amata was. She never asked how his dad was.  
The only good thing as using his mother as a scapegoat to avoid conversation with his dad and leave the house, was that they talked always talked in Spanish. So Catherine couldn’t know what was being discussed as he rushed through the living room, giving a limp wave, and his dad wouldn’t care enough to listen in depth other than asking to say hi to his mom.

The moment he closed the door behind him, a swell of relief bursted from his chest as the cool breeze hit his skin. He could hide away from the house and hopefully, his dad would be too busy with wedding arrangements and work, to ever bother him. Unless need be.  
By the time he reached the end of the 4 levels of stairs, his mom in the most pitying voice, said she had an appointment to get to. And they briefly joked about the times she’d drag him along, and how the smell of acetone and nail polish made him lose a few brain cells as a kid.

She always made him kiss goodbye over phone.

Staring out into the parking lot of the gated community, empty spots scattered, asphalt cool from the overcast sky, the green of the grass saturated because of it ; he felt a raindrop fall onto his wrist, and hoped it’d only sprinkle lightly as he walked to the skatepark. But realized that’d be too long, especially in such heavy weather.

His thumb twitched as he pressed the call button on Butch’s contact.

“Butch’s rock hard cock speaking, may I take your order.”

His face twisted and he regretted calling, “Some manners would be nice.”

“Never with you Nosebleed. Whad’ya want.”

He swayed back in forth with the breeze, as he stood in front of the gate to the townhomes “A ride.”

“Oh. Fuck no.”

“Thanks asshole.”

“You’re welcome, my car’s in the shop dipshit.”

“Well how the fuck was I supposed to know ?”

Butch sighed in the most dramatic way he could, kissing his teeth as a final mocking tease ; “I thought we had a very obvious telepathic friendship Santos. Disappointing.” 

He bit his bottom lip, “Well when’s it out of the shop ?”

“Dunno, late today or early tomorrow.”

“How’re you supposed to get to work then ?”

He was staring at the ground, focusing on the grain texture of the sidewalk, a car slowing to a stop where he was standing, but he didn’t care to look up assuming it was someone merely trying to past the gate. Until a voice mirrored the one coming out of his phone.

“I got my mom’s old car jackass, worry about yourself.”

Butch was smiling cheekily when he looked up, he hated that smile. But he couldn’t help but smile himself when he saw it.  
Closing the door, and reclining the car seat back a few notches, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re a fucking shithead. But, thanks for the ride.”

Butch saluted, “no problem your majesty, just being the good chauffeur dog that I am.” 

He punched Butch in the shoulder. And Butch slugged him in the stomach.

The ride was silent for a few minutes. He didn’t even tell Butch where he wanted to go.

“You wanna go to a party ?”

He tried to remember the last time he went to a party, but all he had was a vague memory fireworks shooting off in someone’s basement. “What kind of party.”

In his peripheral vision, Butch shrugged. “Dunno, weed and free booze is all I know.”

“Only if I can crash at your place.”

“Fine with me.”

He lurched the car seat forward, “you’re serious ?”

Butch tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and shrugged, “why not ?”

He wasn’t expecting a quick answer, a ‘yes’ especially. Maybe he was just used the rough demeanor of Butch, and could forget how easy he could be sometimes. Or he just hardly shared that side with him. Knots piled in his stomach, as he thought about it. Staying over with Butch for the night. He could feel his hands get clammy as he reclined back down. Closing his eyes, letting Eddie Vedder’s singing overtake the silence between them.

_Thoughts arrive like butterflies_  
_Oh he don't know_  
_So he chases them away_  
_Someday yet he'll begin his life again_  
_Life again_


End file.
